


Shelter From the Storm

by monimala



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 10:37:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11689893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: A companion piece toA Laying of HandsThe assurances he gives her are not ones he can give himself.





	Shelter From the Storm

Her husband is not easy in sleep. He’s restless, constantly shifting and murmuring, his burdens still heavy even when he’s not being asked to carry them. She knows the feeling all too well. She is only witness to his distress because slumber has eluded her for years. She stopped sleeping in King’s Landing. The night they executed her father. She’s not truly had a night’s rest since. _You’re safe now, my lady_ , Tyrion’s told her countless times. But if he believed that, there wouldn’t be lines furrowing his brow. He wouldn’t thrash in their bed like he’s fighting against a dozen gold cloaks. The assurances he gives her are not ones he can give himself.

The romantic poets she gorged on as a silly little girl would say that he looks younger in the darkness, more innocent. But that’s not true. Her lord looks a thousand years old, his face craggy with scars and cynicism. Still, she would not trade his face for one more handsome. The roughness of his beard against her palm gives her comfort. The scars...well, they mirror the ones on her soul, don’t they? Sansa traces each line with a fingertip before finding purchase in the russet curls of his hair. A gentle tug is all it takes to awaken him...and arouse him.

“It does not take much to arouse me,” he told her once. “Don’t be frightened if a stiff wind brings me to full-mast, wife. I won’t take you sailing unless you ask.”

His sense of humor is abominable. She hasn’t laughed so freely in a lifetime. She hasn’t done many things as freely as she does with Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen. He watches her now, uncharacteristically quiet, a smile in his eyes, as she pulls the bedsheets down, exposing them both to the light of dawn streaming in through the windows. _Well?_ , the quirk of his lips seems to prompt. It’s been weeks since they’ve consummated their long-ago marriage. He still holds himself apart from her some of the time, expecting censure for his battle wounds and short stature — and cutting his own flesh and spirit when she refuses to. Sansa does not know how to explain to him in words that he is not ugly and twisted...not without reliving what she _knows_ to be ugly and twisted...so she shows him instead.

She kisses his lips and his throat and his shoulders — so weighed down by the world. She lingers on his hands, his strong, capable hands that have always treated her with such kindness, such respect. And she lavishes the most attention and affection on his cock. Thick and sturdy, her lord Tyrion is the first to admit that it’s his favorite and most useful organ — and though she finds his brilliant mind much more impressive, she cannot deny the pleasure it has brought her. _Pleasure_. Something she never realized she was owed. Something she never thought she deserved. Something she didn’t even believe in. Like the gods of the weirwood. Until he showed her. _This is yours, Sansa. Yours to do with what you will. Just tell me how to wield it in your service._

He’s taught her so much about passion in such a short time. She thought she was as cold as the snow that blankets Winterfell, forever frozen inside, but because of him she burns. Her mouth is a furnace, stoked by his cock as she engulfs him within it. Her body is a bonfire, every inch of her skin aflame as he caresses her and murmurs encouragement. “Yes, my dear...just there...suck it harder...yes... _fuck_.”

“Fuck” is one of her favorite words now. He’s taken something crass and hurtful and made it lovely for her. She enjoys it. Fucking. Being this intimate with someone. Bared in every way. Taking his seed down her throat or in her cunt. _Don’t flinch, my lady. It’s just a simple word for my second home.And don’t be afraid — I’ve no plans to redecorate._

_Sansa_ has plans. For the first time in a very long time, she sees a future for herself and the people of the North. She sees spring and summer and fall. And she sees her lord husband at peace. Not just the momentary peace of spilling his release and slumping back against the pillows, but a calm and contentment that will endure. She envisions him happy,  _truly_ happy, because he is owed it. He deserves it. More than anyone else she's ever known.  

“You look like you’re plotting, wife.” The lines on his brow have eased. The ones around his mouth have deepened. He threads his fingers through her hair, gathers it up in his fist and slowly draws her atop him. “Should I be worried?”

“Never,” she tells him fiercely as he draws her leg over his hip and slots his cock inside her. “You _never_ have to worry with me.”

_You’re safe now, my lord._ _I will protect you._

She’ll show him in every possible way. Until he knows it to be true. Until he rests in her arms the whole night through. 

 

\--end--

 


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